Read Online Books/Novels:
Slow Surrender (Struck by Lightning #1)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
1455529273 (ISBN13: 9781455529278)
He pushes her sexual boundaries . . .
From the moment waitress Karina meets him in a New York bar, she knows James is different. Daring. Dominating. Though he hides his true identity from her, the mysterious, wealthy businessman anticipates her every desire and fulfills her secret fantasies. Awakened by his touch, Karina discovers a wild side she hadn’t known existed and nothing is off limits.
She aches for more . . .
What begins as an erotic game soon escalates to a power play that blurs the line between pleasure and pain. Even as she capitulates to James’s sensual demands, Karina craves more. She wants his heart, his soul. She wants his love . . . and she’ll break all the rules to get it.
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One: Out of the Blue
The night of Lord Lightning’s good-bye concert was a crazy night to say the least. I was doing one last waitress shift at the bar my sister managed in Midtown, the concert having taken place at Madison Square Garden, just a few blocks away. The bar was packed with “Lord’s Ladies,” who were inconsolable and tearing their hair out (or wigs, actually) while smearing their face paint with tears. My roommate Becky was at home crying about the same thing. Me? I couldn’t care less what some self-absorbed rock-star asshole was doing as his latest publicity stunt, but it was all over the big-screen TVs: his masked face projected sixty inches wide along with footage of the screaming fans at his supposedly last public performance. The whole city was turned upside down, and I remember so clearly the Lord’s Ladies because they were such a royal pain in the arse! Ordering as little as possible, taking up the best tables all night long, and I could already tell they were going to be lousy tippers.
I’d even had one table dine-and-dash on me. I didn’t think the night could get any worse until I got to the hostess station and caught a glimpse of my thesis advisor walking through the front door. The same advisor I’d told I couldn’t meet tonight because I was “too sick to leave my apartment, cough cough” when my sister Jill had convinced me she was desperate and needed me to work. She had promised a great night for cash tips, which was the only reason I’d agreed to this madness. Even worse, on top of it all was the fact that he’d come in with the man I’d had a job interview with that afternoon, a project manager at a design firm where I hoped to work as soon as I graduated, if not sooner. Theo Renault’s approval of my thesis was the main thing standing between me and graduation, and I knew from department talk he wasn’t one who would casually accept being lied to.
In other words, I was fucked, and all because I was doing Jill a favor. I forced myself to stop looking at Renault and the guy—Philip Hale was his name—as they fought their way through the crowded room toward the bar. Maybe they would have a quick nightcap and get out of here. I tried to focus on the customer stepping up to the stand now, a tall man in a hat and a bittersweet-chocolate-brown suit that was clearly tailored to perfectly fit his lean frame, like something out of a fashion magazine.
Not the kind of guy who was alone, usually, but I hurried to seat him. If I took him upstairs, maybe Renault wouldn’t see me. “Table for one?” I chirped as I thought, Please don’t be waiting for someone.
“Great! Follow me!” I practically grabbed him by the arm and led him quickly to the stairs. “Kind of a busy night in here. It’s a bit quieter on the second floor. I’ll get you away from these crazies.” I waved the menu in the general direction of the Lord’s Ladies, who were starting a group sing-along of some kind.
“I’d like that,” he said, his voice deep. He sounded faintly amused.
Probably because I was acting so flustered. “It’s not always like this in here,” I assured him, as if it mattered. The second floor, unlike the crowded, chaotic first floor, was devoid of both TVs and singing fans and had only a few customers scattered throughout. A group of four women in one corner had already cashed out but had been lingering for an hour. A couple sat near the top of the stairs.
I led him all the way to a table by the windows, overlooking the street, desperate to kill as much time as possible. I had the funny urge to pull out his chair for him, as if this were a white-tablecloth kind of place, but I hung back until he seated himself. He had a topcoat folded over his arm, and he hung it over the back of his chair, put his hat on the wide sill of the window, then sat. I set the menu down in front of him.
“The kitchen is already closed,” I said, going into my automatic “after 10:00 p.m.” patter, “but the full list of cocktails is of course available, as are the selections on the dessert menu.” I turned the menu over to the list of desserts. “Today’s sorbet is passion fruit.”
“Passion fruit?” he asked, one eyebrow raised like he was skeptical of it.
“Nah,” I joked. “That’s the name of my Lord Lightning cover band.”
That made him laugh. In the streetlamps that shone through the window, I couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, blue, hazel, green? The light from outside was stark and bluish compared to the soft amber lights in the bar, making his cheekbones look impossibly sharp. His hair was dangerously blond, almost white, and cropped close to his head. His age was impossible to gauge; he could’ve been a young forty or a haunted twenty. He was gorgeous and striking and his voice had a slight British tinge to it as he said, “Oh, just try to work it into every conversation, do you?”